


Carrion.

by Karlhann



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Blood and Gore, Origin Story, Survival, Theft, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24197641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karlhann/pseuds/Karlhann
Summary: From carrion, to scavenger.Or:Once a scavenger, always a scavenger, no matter the predatory traits one might possess.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Carrion.

Chrollo Lucifer had to bend and break before becoming.

At first, he had been nothing but a baby. Wrecked by hunger and disease, destiny seemed to have written his mother’s fate long ago – a premature end. Her hair was a tangle of dark that spilled like ink over the expanse of her back. There was no beauty in it, the messy curls were wild and uneven, filled with lice and grease. Her face, once angelically rosy, now resembled death. Her eyes held no light, her cheeks paling with every step she took.

Holding the weeping boy between her arms, she fell to the ground, exhausted. She had no strength left, and her body soon withered and died. Her last breath was the slightest puff of air, her chest stuttered mid-way. That was the beginning of Chrollo Lucifer, a man who was once discarded in the rubble that surrounded Meteor City, enveloped by the corpse of his own mother.

Chrollo was born to survive: sensing the crushing weight above him, he wailed until he could no more. In his state he was vulnerable and helpless, and therefore seeking help was the only thing he could do. It was as if, instinctively, he knew the cruelty of the world he was about to face, and understood that without protection, he would inevitably die.

His cries were heard by many, for the outskirts of the city were places where many artefacts could be found. Many subsisted on what they dug up from the ruins – clawing through rocks and sharp shards of metal that sliced their skin while they searched. It was also the perfect place to abandon children. Hundreds of little, underdeveloped corpses littered the land, and the smell of rot was forever present. Those who were considered to be weak were left there to die ( _the blind, the crippled, the sick_ ) and also the newborns that were unfortunate enough to be born at the wrong time ( _born into families that could barely support themselves, to parents that were currently dying or to single mothers that had been left with nothing_ ). Still, the latter were more prone to survive these circumstances.

Sometimes, people searched the area for infants they could adopt and raise, for many different reasons. It wasn’t unheard of for couples to steal a child away, for they couldn’t have one themselves, or for assassins to train youngsters since the beginning of their lives. The nameless baby that trembled with every sobbing breath, the future leader of the spider, _to be king of the dead_ , wouldn’t have been anything but carrion for the vultures that crowded the skies if he hadn’t been found that day.

———————

Chrollo had been named at the age of seven. He was fortunate – he knew when his birthday was, so he could keep track of his age. That was all a birthday meant, really: there were no celebrations, but a mere consciousness of the passing of time. _Seven_ , he mused, tasting the sound of the word while rolling it slowly with his tongue – _seven,_ he wrote the word with a stick on the ground, his calligraphy childish, illegible, but present.

_How long will I live for?_

Chrollo wrote his name next to the number – a marked grave. He possessed a sort of morbid curiosity that wasn’t childish at all. Chrollo, a man in a boy’s body, trapped within muscle and bone and hoping for freedom. Searching for something to sate the constant ache he felt deep in his chest.

His name was meaningless on its own. His caretaker had given him it, in remembrance of his long lost brother. He was known by the name of a dead man. Maybe that meant something, for Chrollo felt more dead than alive at his tender age, having seen the brutality of the City he had been born in. _Maybe_ , he considered, _I have been born to die, and my name will forever remind me of that._

He gave a meaning to it, though. Chrollo – untamed, surviving, thief. Chrollo – alive. The fact that the word was linked to his being made it all the more significant. Chrollo - the new Chrollo, a living, breathing being - a child born from the womb and reborn from the rubble.

Lucifer, however, was a symbolic surname. The devil himself reincarnated, an angel that had been condemned for his nature, for falling into sin. A divine creature that longed for power, fuelled by greed, and was punished for it. Evil itself, and so incredibly _human_ – ethereal nature corrupted by mortals’ desires. Ironic, and still so very believable.

Chrollo Lucifer – a gruesome name for a child his age, and still so very appropriate.

His figure was weak and small, and therefore it terrified no-one. His hands were clammy and his limbs were mere bone. His boyish body was covered by an oversized t-shirt that swallowed him whole. He was short because he was starved, the lack of food meant lack of height, meant lack of power. Still, his eyes – a shade of onyx – were deep and endless. Were those the eyes of a god? Of a devil reincarnate? Or of a kid that had seen too much? No matter who they belonged to, they were enough to make people quiver. He was calm and composed, and still the underlying threat, _the danger, the aggression_ , was forever present in his stoic features.

He had no physical strength, but he was astute; incredibly intelligent, forged by his circumstances. Moulded and bent, he was prey – was used to the likings of others, was abused for he relied on a group to survive. His caretaker was the leader of a gang that stole and deceived those who tried to live legally in the city.

“Chrollo, your face is pretty” he told him once, when the skies were tinted red, a strange, beautiful sight in Meteor City (and still, it seemed as if it was bleeding out) “You are lucky. Thieves need pretty faces to be great.” He didn’t understand, at first, what the man had referred to. No matter how symmetrical his factions – the strongest would always win. He would learn, with time, that beauty was what the world searched for. What was meaningless to him was valued by others; morality was a lame joke when it came to judging those who were attractive. All it took was a smile; the slightest hint of teeth, a faked fondness in his eyes, to dismantle the ethical values of many.

People, he had learned, _wanted_ to be fooled.

In Meteor City, people trusted nobody – but it would only take a moment of doubt, of vulnerability, for Chrollo to trick an individual and for the group to loot. Time was unforgiving, and it did not spare those who let down their guard. There was no grace in the violence the gang used to accomplish their thievery. Mere seconds was all it took for the putrid smell of blood to fill the air. The boy always stood by, detached from it all, viewing the harmed with pity.

_Why did you allow yourself to fall for my antics? Wasn’t it obvious, that you were falling into a trap?_

It took a while for him to become accustomed to the foul odour, the screams and pleads and whimpers of defeat. The glares, disgust, the spiteful words against him. _Bastard_ , he was once insulted, as if he was the one to blame for the title; as if not millions identified themselves with it in Meteor City. Bastard meant unwanted, he supposed, and every single one of them had been undesired. What should he care about that, then?

The words of dead men were meaningless, after all.

———————

Chrollo was ten when he experienced a great, mayor loss.

The day had been like any other, so accustomed to brutality that he almost believed it to be tranquillity. He stole hardened bread, broke the neck of a crow that descended from the sky and was bold enough to caw at him.

He was going back to the hideout when he heard the screams. A chocking sound, gurgling and sickening – _a slit throat_. His first thought was to get away _,_ to run in the opposite direction and increase his chances of survival. However, as if lured by the sound of death, he entered the derelict building cradling the mangled bird close to his chest. It was a foolish action, he knew – but still, what was more terrifying? Dying along with others, or being alone against the world?

The darkness called out to him, and he went further into the derelict structure. He saw it then, the figure that loomed before corpses and dressed in black. Everything about him screeched Mafia, ( _mafia, mafia, mafia_ ) and Chrollo’s mind went into overdrive, so much so that he could only think about the word, how it rolled and twisted behind his teeth, how it would look like, all messy writing, on the floor, next to the discarded children of the rubble.

The man who reeked of death and looked like it turned around, drenched in the blood of his caretaker and his other companions. There were two other men, and the suffocating feeling of dread that squeezed his guts took a moment to register. Traffickers. There were some of them around Meteor City, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and kidnap those who were weak and alone.

Chrollo looked like a helpless child – his physique was lithe, not at all bulky – but his eyes still resembled those of a wild animal. He had recently joined the group when ambushing people, like a pack of hyenas that feasted on those who were already spent.

He knew he was nobody, and due to the fact that he was nothing and had nothing, he would do everything to survive.

Oh, instinct, how wonderful it was for those who clung to life, even if they themselves did not understand their eagerness to keep on living.

Still, his eyes didn’t impress that day. Maybe it was because of the darkness of the room, and therefore those three brutes couldn’t see their dangerous flicker; maybe they had seen that expression on many others before. The possibilities were endless, but reality was only one: they charged. Three against one, strong against powerless, glory came to them fast.

They held him down and tried to tie him up, but Lucifer screamed and bit, kicked and plunged his nails into the arm of the one who threatened to choke him. He, a meteorite, would struggle until he claimed victory. He was no longer boy, no longer man – but feral.

He snatched their supremacy away, dug his teeth impossibly deep into the throat of the one that straddled him. Blood was quick to fill his mouth, its taste horribly metallic and the feeling of it thick. He forced his jaw to close, as if to chew, drank because if not he'd choke. He then ripped the meat away, and spat it onto the floor, ignoring the pained chortles, the half-howls.

His face was bloody and his breathing heavy. Adrenaline made his eyes glimmer and his limbs ache with the need to fight. The man above him tried to live but failed, slipping away after a beat. Chrollo pushed him off him and stood up, _supreme_. His skin tingled, hyper aware; his senses on point. Still, it was as if he wasn’t living the moment, as if he was the spectator to a horrid show. He felt the power of having the upper hand against those who believed themselves to be death bearers. 

Chrollo took in the disgusted faces of the remaining two. Bodies were scattered around them; the people the boy had grown to like were heaps of flesh on the floor, to be no more. It was a gruesome image – everything he had ever known had been destroyed in seconds. He was morbid, his stance that of a predator, the blood of another running down his chin.

Chrollo felt like a _god_. 

———————

His identity became famous after that, the news of mangled bodies and bite marks spread quickly throughout Meteor. As the tale was told, rumours were created. Cannibal, they called him. Scavenger, as he was said to have feasted on the bodies of his own fallen companions for weeks on end.

He hadn’t done such a thing, but their sayings did not bother him. His presence made people flee, and he enjoyed the feeling of being feared. At the age of twelve, he had begun to dislike human company. It was bothersome and exhausting to put a mask of understanding on, making others believe he was humane. He simply did not care. 

He was cold and serene, but at night, huddled in a room he shared with other children, he had to keep the hysterical laughter from clawing up his throat. There was something missing, he knew. Something that left a huge emptiness behind, near his beating heart, a hole that was settled behind his ribs and that could never be filled. No matter the amount of books he read, how much he fed his mind, the people he killed, the amount of rotting food he ate - his chest was hollow. He was starved.

He did not know what being alive meant. 

———————

He was taught about the outside world at the age of thirteen. 

Chrollo had never thought about it before - he never had the time - because he believed the world was as merciless as his city was. He became enchanted by the stories they told him, the scraps of information he found, the books he read. It seemed surreal, the existence of a concepts such as family, love, or happiness. Of villages that were filled with flowers that bloomed and children that didn't feel true fear. He dreamed about tables filled with food and warm hugs that enveloped him whole - about head pats and a mellow voice that never failed to calm him down. 

He imagined his mother, creating a picture of her in his mind. She was slender and beautiful, possessed the same eyes he had, but they were not a feral cat's. They became tender when they fell upon him. He thought about what it would feel like, to talk to her, what her voice would sound like. He had met some women that assured him they had known her before her pregnancy, before he was even born. It sometimes was weird for him to believe life had begun before he had, that it would continue on after he's gone. They described her for him, making Chrollo picture a woman that was fearless and that had wished for freedom. They told him about her hair, how it cascaded down her back, how it's colour was like a vulture's wings. Her lips, so full of glee and slight mischief. 

Chrollo dreamt and dreamt - he longed for her affection, wondered about the name she would've given him. 

He learned about her illness, too, and something shattered inside him. His childish heart throbbed painfully at the realization that death had taken her away a long time ago. How she must have coughed, with a lung disease such as hers. He could almost see the blood that coated her fingers, understand the despair she had felt when she understood how life was slipping away and that she was still here, confined in her little, dirty cage. Her hair might've been a vulture's, but her instincts surely hadn't. Her wings had been clipped and her spirits crushed, forever eating at her own self, waiting for death to consume her completely. 

He learned he shouldn't feel pity for her, or for anyone that waited too long for their circumstances to improve. She hoped foolishly for life to gift her, and life doesn't do such things. If you wanted something, you had to take it, no matter the blood you had to spill for it. You had to cling to the thing as if you already possessed it, as if someone was trying to take it away from you. You had to force the world to bow before you, not the other way around. 

The teenager knew this, and still, he woke up crying due to the could've been's. The countless possibilities perturbed his state of mind; he considered the mercy of death.

Chrollo knew she would be the only one capable of hushing his turmoils. 

———————

He met Pakunoda when he was sixteen. 

She became the first girl Chrollo befriended, and he didn't know how to react before her. It wasn't the fact that he believed she was weaker than him - no, she was stronger in fights - it was, instead, a nervousness that threatened to consume him, a sort of fluttering feeling that enveloped his guts. She was older, too, and her features were sharp and proportionate. She had grown, and therefore her starved features had mellowed out, making her frame slender and womanly. Her eyes were droopy and sensual, could almost seem disinterested at times. What others could've considered a sultry gaze was seen by Chrollo as the cold blooded eyes of a hawk, incredibly perceptive to the slightest hint of hesitance.

It wasn't love, at least not the romantic type. Chrollo had never felt such a thing. It was admiration towards an older figure that took care of him, that provided him with the care he secretly seeked but that at the same time proved to be independent and determined. She seemed to fill the void in his chest, at least for a moment, at least an ounce, but it was enough. It was what he needed. 

Still, he was no boy - _he had never truly been one, to begin with_ \- so he couldn't cling to her despairingly as he would've done when he was younger. They kept each other alive, and that was enough to demonstrate their care for each other. There were no betrayals, and that was sufficient - it was glorious. 

They came afterwards, all of them - the future members of the troupe. They were volatile, had unique personalities. They could hide their aggression behind smiles all they wanted, or simply uncover their essence to the world - the truth was that under their skin they were all the same: twisted and bent as the world itself had taught them to be.

Still, it was he, the one they crowned with sharp shards of glass while being surrounded by the innumerable things that were worthless and abandoned, that lacked a singularity. He could become anyone, was used to adopting different characters, fooling others into believing it was him speaking. He had lost himself, many years ago, and the young boy had forgotten who he was. 

He supposed his essence was trapped in the hollowness of his heart. 

Chrollo became the head of the spider. He was calm and collected, the only one capable, the only one worthy, of ruling the legs. He understood them all so perfectly that he was capable of controlling the fights that usually broke out. He was blessed by the ink that tinted his skin, the number zero a clear mark of his rank. 

He detached himself from his emotions, visualizing himself as the spider - no longer a man, but a gear of a whole. There was no individuality. He lost himself in the group, devoting his life to it, but all the others did so too, and therefore he believed it was worth it. 

The Gen'ei Ryodan had to be the beginning of all beginnings, a symbol of hope for the residents of Meteor City. It was, also, his ticket to freedom, a way to explore the world to his heart's content, until he felt satisfied. (He knew he would never be.)

It was at that moment when Chrollo understood the power he held in his hands, and the danger he was to the world. The group was nothing yet, and still it felt so _great_.

They celebrated the spider's birth until morning came, alcohol consuming their bodies, making some sway to the music of a damaged radio while others pondered the change they were about to experience while they traced their new tattoos. 

Chrollo wondered if he would ever find himself in his new title: Danchou. 

———————

The smell of burning flesh flooded his senses, the ash circling around him as if creating a halo. 

The huts were marked by blood and the stench of death was present everywhere around him, the screams an orchestra of damage and power. Chrollo looked at the eyeless corpses and saw the vultures descending from the skies while he thought of home. 

It had been mesmerizing to watch the power of the newly founded troupe - how a few flickers of Feitan's wrist were enough to bring people to their knees, how Uvo's inhumane strength broke the harmony there once had been. How poetic: a village filled with life could be reduced to its origins of infertile land in mere seconds by ill intentions and sheer strength. 

He saw the children whimper and the parents beg, all of them pushed down on the floor as some screamed curses and spiteful things, and he was reminded of the way he had once kicked and bit, refusing to give up on freedom. He saw the way the fingers of his allies collected the eyes of their victims, and he thought of the unfairness of the world once again - how life had taken everything away from him, how it made him desire to take and take and take, just to give him back years later a sole opportunity he wouldn't have been capable of refusing. The world was truly a horrifying place, capable of dooming them all, no matter their past.   
  


Chrollo became a predator that day, and still he could only think of carrion.

———————

They were all meaningless, disposable. If it weren’t for each other, they would have never created a purpose for themselves. After the massacre, he dreamed about his long lost mother, her face, which was blank (for he could not imagine a suitable mouth, a proper nose for her) held only the disappointment of her eyes.

 _This is not freedom_ , she told him, _you’re caging yourself._

He woke up in a tangled mess of sheets and sweat, breathing heavily while tasting ash on his tongue. Chrollo felt around his bed blindly, as if trying to find some sort of support. There was nothing to cling to, and he felt the abyss of despair enveloping him. It took a few breaths to recover his stability. He laughed bitterly after a while, when his chest did not shudder and his hands trembled just slightly. How ridiculous, for a man to be afraid of an imaginary voice, one that he invented to befit his dead mum. 

He pulled at his hair until his scalp hurt. The pain seemed to ground him, as it had always done. He was grateful for it, as it managed to make the nausea subside. 

_Yes_ , he concluded, _this might not be freedom, but at least it tastes like it. This feeling proves I'm strong; I'm still alive to get away from Meteor City._

After all, she was nothing but a corpse, discarded and long forgotten, useless even to the crows and vultures that filled the skies, for they had already ate enough. 

———————

He would understand with time, when the vanity of youth washed away from his body and his dreams of becoming began to fade into the darkness of uncertainty and doubt, that a meteorite never truly escapes Meteor City. 

They were all too broken, all too maimed, to actually enjoy the simplicity of domestic life. They seeked blood like sharks, they feasted on fear and enjoyed bloody fights. Everything dulled before the trepidation of death. She held his heart with both hands as if caressing it, oh so very gentle. Chrollo knew that those caring hands could squeeze whenever they wanted so brutally that she would drain his life completely, and still he felt tranquil.

He did not trust Death's hands, but he held on to her and watched her figure twirl around him when dancing through life. He seduced her, and she, too, seduced him in turn. She wore ragged robes, blackened with time, her skin was grey and dull, as if it was beginning to rot. Death smelled like blood. She was faceless, but still so ethereal and beautiful it could render any lesser man to his knees. Only a devil could dance alongside Death so freely, as if possessing her. Lucifer played his part greatly, in a stage that represented his pitiful life, watched by the masses of those he had once killed.

He knew they would cheer when he stopped his dancing and he became nothing more than an empty shell. 

Still, he kept moving, under all those watchful corpses that snickered whenever he tripped or lost his footing for a moment, ignoring their presence completely. Chrollo focused on the woman before him, watching her every step, wondering when she would lose interest in their dancing. He also observed the tiles under his feet, how he danced on them, constantly in motion. Moving meant living, and he despairingly wanted to live. Every once in a while, when he felt her slacken in his arms, as if bored, he would do some flashy move, something, anything, that would keep her intrigued for a mortal like him. 

That, he guessed, was enough to earn her good grace. Whenever he caught her after a particularly difficult step, she laughed loudly, her chuckles sounding like dying chortles, so grotesque and at the same time, so alluring. When she had fun, her scythe disappeared, her cold breath did not chill his neck. He considered himself a lucky man, fueled by the slightest adrenaline - enough to make his skin shudder pleasantly. 

_Oh, I nearly died. -_ He would think.

Still, he felt nothing but a twinge of satisfaction. He had tricked death yet again. 

———————

Chrollo enjoyed pondering the many possibilities life could have offered him. What once had made him sob as a child, thinking about all the chances he had lost just because of his upbringing, so limited and poor, was nothing more than a past time as an adult. 

As he looks into the eyes of the young Neon Nostrade, he wonders what he would’ve been if he had had money as a toddler. If his mother had lived and his father hadn't abandoned her. He wonders, also, what could’ve happened to him if he had been caught by the traffickers, if he hadn’t bared his teeth to those men. He goes even further, at times. Would he have even existed, if the whole, twisted, rotten and corrupted city of Meteor hadn't ever been created? He is a meteorite, and maybe it was that fact that made him believe he has an identity. He is what others will never be, and although his past if filled with blood and he is slowly drowning in it, he feels a spark of pride that lights his chest at the thought.

He _is_.

He also remembers how the young children of Meteor City held on to him when they spotted him wandering the streets, in the strange days he decided to return home. It is as if he were a lifeline, the only source of hope meteorites had. Chrollo was a slave to the world, and still they did not notice. They looked at him with admiration and jealousy, a strange mix, yearning to touch him and to become him. He could almost imagine how their teeth ached, how they all wanted a piece of him. Some adults kneeled before him, as if he were some sort of God, and other children - bolder because of their naivety - touched his leather coat as he walked. 

Chrollo wondered, in those moments, why the world was so unfair. Whenever he watched the eyes of those who had been cursed to live as meteorites and admired the hollowness in them, he understood the sickening traits of humanity, the lack of morality he had been trained to feel attracted to. 

He analyses Neon's personality, her innocence, how she can allow herself to trust people she doesn’t know and her childish selfishness. Lucifer likes being how he is, he decides, because her ignorance makes him ill. He wants to feel what she feels for a moment, though, to experience the way emotion floods his veins until he can carry it no more. 

———————

Chrollo Lucifer knows many see him as a monster. 

He does not believe himself to be a monster, because these just follow their instincts and what their nature dictates. Beasts without a heart, they lack social rules, they don't understand what is right from what is wrong. He is worse. He is human. Chrollo knows what he does, understands the many lives he can ruin with his actions. People can be savages, when raised in the right conditions. 

He is no predator, either. He holds some traits these might possess, but he is a scavenger. He has always feasted on what hasn't been his. That is the reason why he is such a good thief. He claims what others have pursued and admires the beauty of it until it becomes dull. Chrollo pecks what others leave behind, eats what they discard, steals what he was never meant to possess. 

A scavenger all through and through, beaten and raised in Meteor City, the land of the forgotten, where birds with large wings cover the Sun. He is no hyena, even if he usually laughs last. He has a pack, yes, but hyenas limit themselves to the land, they crawl on the ground, dragging their heavy bodies gracelessly, exhausting their victims until they can fight no more. They cackle too loudly, too; mockingly.

Chrollo is more subtle, refined: a vulture, he decides, even if that is not the figure that marks his skin. His hair is dark and his eyes are endless voids, just like the black pearls that are embedded in the bird's skulls. They are intelligent, cunning. Those birds work in groups, but they can also survive on their own.

Vultures are not beautiful, at least not to the majority. They consume what others are disgusted by, they are crooked creatures that tilt their heads curiously at those who challenge them. They are large birds that topple to the floor and spread their wings menacingly whenever they see fit, but they are also capable of waiting with terrifying patience for the right moment to strike. 

He is grateful of being a scavenger, for he is no prey - he doesn’t give in to those around him, doesn’t follow the orders of people he dislikes - but he isn’t a predator either - he isn’t guided only by his instinct and the brutality that is set deep in his bones. Chrollo Lucifer has always stood in the middle ground: neither continual victim nor constant aggressor; not good, not bad, ignored and then known, weak and strong and finally feared. A slum boy that became a God to a minority, but a divine being nonetheless. 

That is the essence of Chrollo Lucifer.

**Author's Note:**

> After reading the latest chapter of chlorine by lances, I was inspired by one of the quotes in the chapter: "Not a predator, no, but even Kuroro could admire the teeth of a scavenger."
> 
> Her work is truly outstanding!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fanfic. You can always check by Tumblr page (Karlhann) and message me, if you want to. :)


End file.
